Jesus, dude, none of us know what to do with you.

Wow, that last blog post was a week ago, eh? Whoops.

Guys, I have a confession to make: I'm burnt out on the blogging.

It's not that I don't enjoy it (where else would I spout out my random thoughts?), it's that I don't really feel like I have much to write about.

Things have changed a lot in the past few weeks and, if I were a good blogger, I'd write about them with such zest you would think I was a lemon. (Lemon zest! Get it? Anyone?) But, here's the thing, I'm so excited and happy to be living it all that I can't properly sum it up afterwards. I feel like if I take the time to write about everything, I'll miss out on what's happening in the present. At this point, I care more about keeping the memories than writing about them. Barf, right?

Maybe I can find a way to make my new found zest for life co-exist with the writer inside of me. Compared to how rough everything was a few months ago, it's still new, exciting and pretty damn scary that everything has seemed to just fall into place.

So, because I feel like I'm completely butchering what I'm trying to convey, here is my horoscope for this week. I feel like it sums up a lot of what's been happening lately.

Cancer (June 21-July 22): In honor of the karmic cleanup phase of your astrological cycle, I invite you to do the following exercise: imagine a pit in the middle of a desert that holds everything you've ever used up, spoiled and outgrown. Your old furniture is here, along with stuff like once-favorite clothes, CDs and empty boxes of your favorite cereal. But this garbage dump also contains subtler trash, like photos that capture cherished dreams you gave up on, mementos from failed relationships and symbols of defunct beliefs and self-images you used to cling to. Everything that is dead to you is gathered here. Got that vision in your mind's eye? Now picture yourself dousing the big heap of stuff with gasoline and setting it on fire. Watch it burn.

Yep.

It's getting better all the time.

I don't know what it is, but I've been in a really good mood lately. Case in point: today, for no reason at all, I just started giggling. I'm not talking about a little tee-hee-ing, I'm talking full on giggle fit. Japanese school girls came out of nowhere and were like, "Hey, KV, chill with the giggling. You're embarrassing yourself."

I don't even know what to do with myself. Mind you, I'm not complaining. It's just that my situation hasn't really changed at all, so I'm kind of caught off guard. I'm still clueless as far as life goes, I have no idea how I'm going to pay for the transition to a state university, my summer is jam packed with work, school and social obligations and my car/phone/computer/life breaks down every third day of the week. I'm still in the exact same situation as I was a few months ago when I was sobbing myself to sleep and doing my share to help with the failing ice cream industry by eating enough Dryers to put the half-ton man to shame. I was basically a walking Lifetime movie.


I need to work on my seduction eyes.

So why the change now? Why am I falling into giggle fits and taking detours down Shit-Eating Grin Lane?

I don't know. I don't know and, honestly, I don't really care. I'm happy with whatever happened in my brain that triggered this good mood. So, I'm going to try something that I rarely ever do.

I'm going to enjoy it.

She blinded me with science (and then totally took my organs).

I know I said I wouldn't be around as much this week, but what can I say? ALL CAPS, I just can't quit you. It also doesn't help that I'm the only one at work and I'm harnessing all my passive-aggressive powers into saying "Screw you, The Man!" by not working. Okay so I'm still answering the phones. And maybe I'm still sending out company-wide e-mails. And I may have changed the toner cartridge in the printer. But dammit! I am not a machine!

You're not my real mom.

Ahem, what? Where was I?

My brain is still relatively fried from my week long journey into adult life, so I'm having a hard time focusing. A harder time than usual, anyway. And yes, that is what she said. Let us take a moment to recognize. All done?

One of the reasons I've been so swamped with school work, regular work, etc is because instead of being a good time-manager, I'm a terrible one. I should be time-fired. Zing! No? Okay.

In the few hours of free time I have, I don't spend it studying, working or even exercising. I'm not trying to teach myself a new craft or attempting to better the world. What am I doing, you ask? Reading this:



I should start by saying I didn't pick this out. Aside from generally being a little hesitant to buy a book called Stiff (lest someone think I'm scouting screenplays for my new porno), I don't like feet. So a picture of dead feet on the cover of a book under the word Stiff? That's gonna be one seriously weird (and potentially illegal) dirty video.

But it came highly recommended by Garland. Now, Garland and I may have different opinions on movies, music and literature, but one thing is always for certain: we both like to be entertained by weird and potentially gross things. Plus, there are few people on the planet who know my taste better than Garland, so I relented, grabbed a Jell-O pudding out of the fridge (not recommended whilst reading this, by the way) and got to reading.

This book is, for lack of better words, awesome. It is about all the things that can happen to your body after death. Say, for example, you donate your body to science. Well, what does that mean? What happens to your body after you donate it?


Bill Nye the Science Guy may or may not be involved.

Well, apparently a lot of things. You can donate a still beating heart, liver or kidneys to transplant patients. The Army can shoot at it to test the stopping power of bullets. Medical students can dissect you, the auto industry can use you as a crash-test dummy or you can end up at a body farm where researchers study decomposition to help aid in crime scenes. In short, any possible use you can think of for a cadaver has probably been tried.

After reading much of the book, I've come to the conclusion that I want to donate my body to science. I am already an organ donor, but if there's more than can be done with it when I'm gone, then have at it.

I think this would be good for a few reasons. It would be comforting to know that even if I didn't accomplish anything with my body when I was living, maybe something can be accomplished when I'm dead. Totally still counts. Also, it would help others in the long run and I could use some extra points tacked onto my soul at the end. Heaven doesn't let in any freeloaders. I know, I checked. Also, it would lessen my chances at coming back as a re-animated zombie. And if that doesn't make it worth it, I don't know what would.

This fire is out of control.

This is going to be a glorious morning. Do you know how I know? Because it's Fire Guys morning. What's Fire Guys morning, you ask? Why do I keep asking you so many questions, you wonder? You didn't realize you were in for an early morning quiz, you say? Oh you.

In the line of work I do, I see my share of firefighters. They're a large part of the organization I work for. You know that stupid stereotype where women will see a firefighter and completely lose her mind? It's preposterous and, frankly, offensive. I want to set the record straight: it's most definitely not a stereotype. It's true life, baby. Real as Aretha Franklin's love of powdered donuts and "look at me" hats.


Is that a bear claw I see?

If you are a woman and you don't at the very least get a hot flash when you see a fireman then your ovaries are plotting against you. Get that checked out.

Unfortunately, the fire guys only come in occasionally because this is an office, not a forest. There aren't as many fires to be put out here.

Today is one of the mornings where the stars aligned and God said, "Bring the dudes," and for whatever reason, there are fire guys around. There's one standing at my desk right now. Swooooon.

Ahem, focus. So earlier I was minding my own business at my desk. Doing a little typing, sipping a little tea and completely and totally groping myself. It's laundry time so my choice of clean bras has been a little limited. I was forced to go with one that, as it turns out, is trying to strangle my boobs into submission. I had one hand in my shirt, trying to mediate the fight between breast and bra when a fire guy wanders up.

"Uh, morning," he says. Strike one.

I try to play it cool, like this guy didn't just watch me get to second base with myself.

"Hey, good morning," I say. "How's it going?"

He is beautiful. He has a sort of Roman haircut going on, like Russel Crowe in Gladiator minus the body armor (unfortunately). He's young, maybe a few years older than me. He's got a trimmed beard (hello, would you like to father my children?), muscles and a killer smile.

"I'm going to be in the conference room all day," he says. "But I was wondering if you had any Tums? My stomach is killing."

It's because it's trying to tell you that you're madly in love with me. Listen to your body, cute Fire Guy.

I scramble around my desk for Tums. Scramble is putting it nicely. I tore up every first aid kit, every drawer and every shelf in my area. All the while I'm trying to make small talk in the hopes that Fire Guy will realize that I'm hilarious and witty and he wants to elope with me.

"We have 5 first aid kits, one of them has to have Tums right?" I say.

He chuckles. Score. "I hope so. I think I just had too much coffee; had to get up early."

"Oh yeah, what office are you from?" I say.

"[Town four hours away]," he says.

"Oh lame," I say. I was about to say that if he moved to Tucson, he would never have to drive anywhere except over to my place, when I opened a cabinet and a glass vase fell out and shattered. Strike two.

"Shit," I say. I turn to face Fire Guy and he is giving me a look that says, "I didn't know our company hired the mentally handicapped."

"Sorry, but I think we're all out of the good stuff," I say. "You might check with Safety Officer down the hall. That guy has all the good pills." I laugh at my own joke and Fire Guy offers up a pity smirk.

"Uh, alright I'll go check," he says. He lingers for just a second, looking at the digital picture frame on Desk Mate's desk. I start walking towards another drawer to find something to clean up the broken glass with when I tripped on a loose piece of carpet and have to use a fan to keep myself and my dignity from crashing to the floor. Strike three.

Fire Guy was nice about it and pretended like I didn't just feel up the fan. Oh wait, I already felt something up this morning. That joke is tired.

I think it's best to observe the Fire Guys from a distance, lest I make more of a fool of myself. They may fight fires for a living, but they can never extinguish the fire in my heart. Or my pants. Maybe I should get that checked out.

Not a boy, not yet a woman.

I've often been accused of being a bit of a tomboy. When I was younger, I chose the Hot Wheels, pogs and dinosaur action figures my brothers played with over Barbies.* Dressing up wasn't really my thing either, that is unless you count overalls with only one strap buttoned. I spent most of my youth wearing camouflage pants, pink Converse high tops and a pink shirt with Sylvester the Cat on it. It was the 90s, don't judge me.

Maybe it's because I grew up with brothers, but I've never really been into girly sort of things. To be honest, I get confused and intimidated by a lot of the make-up, clothing, hair styling and accessories options. How am I supposed to know what summer scarf goes with this outfit? Wait, accessories are supposed to match? How exactly do I work a curling iron? See, it's all very confusing. One wrong move and you'll end up with no eyebrows and half a shaved head. I've seen it happen and it's gross.

It wasn't until my older brother, M, brought Garland around that I took a real interest in what clothes I wore and whether or not my hair was brushed. Garland, also a tomboy at heart, is quite the fashionable lady. She came on to the scene and suddenly I realized that I didn't really look like, well, a girl. Mostly though, I was astonished that someone so chic and put together could be such a tomboy. I started looking at the other ladies in my life. My lady cousins always had impeccable hair, cute outfits, wore high heels and were all very pretty. I suddenly felt very out of place.

With my cousins and Garland's help, I started on an unspoken quest to become more ladylike. I just felt like it was time to start looking a little more, um, not like a butt.

In some ways, I have succeeded. I put forth effort in my appearance (most of the time, depending on how lazy I am in the morning and if I absolutely, positively have to look like someone who got a decent nights sleep). I have started a passionate, albeit quite pricey, love affair with accessories and flats. I now know what a manicure, pedicure and brow wax are, how much they cost and where the best places to go for each are. I know when to use ribbon, the difference between fall and summer colors and am a avid reader of Glamour magazine.

But in most ways, I am still the same tomboy. I would pick zombie movies over romantic-comedies any day. My mom still rolls her eyes and says, "KV, you're such a boy," when I choose to watch a marathon of Deadliest Catch instead of the home and garden channel. I can't walk in high heels to save my life and dresses make me uncomfortable. I once accepted a date from a guy only because he quoted Roadhouse to me. Just today, I chose a book about submarines during WWII instead of chick-lit.

I'll always be a tomboy. No amount of make-up or wavy, luscious locks doused with the latest hair product will change that (and I'm talking super luscious). And, y'know, I think I'm pretty okay with that.


*To be fair, I did love Baribies at one point. I even had a few and my friend from down the street would come over and we would reenact scenes from Disney's Aladdin. That is, until one day my brother and his friend from down the street discovered fire crackers. And you know what they say about fire crackers: they're a gateway explosive. My Barbies learned this first hand as they were strapped to stick after stick of illegal firecrackers. May they rest in peace (or pieces). Amen.

I Want It All, I Just Can't Figure Out Nothing

I've been having a hard time as of late. I can't figure out what I want to do with my life and everything I've done thus far seems, well, bleh. Quarter-life crisis come early is what's happening. At least I think so because I'm too lazy to look up what defines a quarter-life crisis on Wikipedia.

It's not that I don't have direction. It's that there's too many directions I want to go in. I want to study history, but I also want to learn how to be an archaeologist. I want to study anthropology, paleontology, Spanish, Mexican-American and European studies. I want to learn web design. I want to improve my writing skills. I want to be a screen writer, an editor, a director, or at least an extra in a zombie movie.


Dream big!

The problem is that I can't choose. I've tried and I just can't. I decide to go with one major and it's fine for a semester or so and then suddenly every fiber in my being is like, "History is for pricks and dead white guys. Let's be a movie director now!"

Aaaaaaand that's how you spend almost four years in college and still accomplish nothing academically. It's really quite a talent. I could write a book.

So, here's what I'm going to do. I'm going to build a resume right here on this blog. And by "resume" I mean "a list of things I am awesome blossom at". I'm talkin' awesome blossom with EXTRA awesome. Eat that.

1. Yelling/Shouting/Being Loud In General
Seriously, if there was a medal for being the loud, I would win it. I'd win it so many times, that they would eventually just end up naming the award the KV Award For Outstanding Decibel Achievement.

2. Watching things


Like this except with less robots. That is, unless has a spare robot.

If you need someone to watch a movie for you and then make comments about it, I'm your lady. Marathoning TV on DVD is one of my favorite things to do. I once even spent an entire Saturday watching Lifetime movies and westerns. Point being, if you need things watched, I'm pretty amazing at it. I don't discriminate between good or bad movies, entertaining or boring ones. Which leads me to #3...

3. Napping
I can nap anywhere. ANYWHERE. When I was little, my mom used to pay people to find me because I was such a stealth napper. If you need someone to be unconscious for 1-2 hours at any point in the day, then look no further. No longer than 2 hours though. Any nap that's longer than 2 hours is a sleep. Although I'm pretty good at that too.

4. Drinking
My drinking comes complete with dancing on platforms at clubs, hitting people in the eye with my elbows, drunk dialing, speaking every word of Spanish that I've ever heard and an enormous increase of Skill #1. However, it also comes with the spins, occasional vomiting and multiple declarations of "Seriously, seriously, you guys, no, shut up seriously I'm trying to say something here, I love you."

5. Time wasting
Pretty self-explanatory.

Paradise City: Where the Grass Is Green and The Girls Are Pretty

You'll be happy to know that today I was an active, productive adult. I only thought about ditching class for half an hour before actually driving myself over to campus. Which, as it turns out, was the right choice. If I had ditched like I originally wanted to, I would've missed the most awesome video about lava. That's right, I'm paying hundreds of dollars to watch a video about magma flow. Someone pinch me cause I must be dreaming.

After class I went to the gym. Run, run, run, sweat, sweat, sweat, you know how it goes.

On the drive home, I was feeling good. I did all the things I was supposed to do for the day and I was free to do what I had been wanting to do all day: unbutton my pants, take a nap and drink Diet Cokes. I really don't see how I don't go on more dates.

Rex Grayskull, my new iPod and love of my life (seriously, how am I not on a date right now as we speak?), must've been in a good mood too because he was pumping out the jams. Sweet Child Of Mine by Guns n' Roses came on. I was rockin'. Honestly, I think some people may have confused me for Axl Rose I was so good.


Pictured above: not me.

I was stopped at the light and was just getting ready for my air guitar solo, when I looked over and saw the guy in the car next to me giving me a look. It wasn't just a glance either, it was a glare. Nay, a smolder. I was being smoldered at.

At first I was a little taken aback. Then I thought about it. Here I am, rocking out so hard I was starting to fear for my car's safety. Of course this guy is checking me out! I thought. I must look like the coolest person on the planet right now.

Then I glanced in my rear view mirror to check out the situation this guy was seeing.



Woooooof. While in my mind I looked and felt like a rock star, I looked like I just escaped from an Elvis Presley impersonation festival. For crazies. During a hurricane.

The guy smirked at me and continued on his way. As for me, I did the only thing I could think to do to soften the embarrassment I felt: I put on Welcome to the Jungle and turned it on full blast. At the very least, I felt like I looked like the type of person who should be listening to Guns N' Roses.

Axl would be proud.